


Achilles' Last Stand

by MontanaHarper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Jossed, Multi, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-30
Updated: 2008-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/MontanaHarper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Sam and Dean Winchester," the girl says, her voice sweet and light. "I've been looking everywhere for you two."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Achilles' Last Stand

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers through 3x12 – Jus In Bello, but A/U thereafter.** The title is a Led Zeppelin song.
> 
> Many, many thanks to [](http://pharis.livejournal.com/profile?mode=full)[**pharis**](http://pharis.livejournal.com/) and [](http://the-shoshanna.livejournal.com/profile?mode=fullprofile)[**the_shoshanna**](http://the-shoshanna.livejournal.com/) for their thoughtful and in-depth betas; this story wouldn't be nearly what it is without their help. Thanks, too, to [](http://casspeach.dreamwidth.org/profile?mode=fullprofile)[**casspeach**](http://casspeach.dreamwiddth.org/), who keeps me honest on the medical details and who still loves me even if I occasionally choose to go for dramatic effect over realism.

Being officially dead has its benefits. For one thing, they have some breathing room now, can walk into a restaurant or library or county records office without scoping out all the exits first or watching over their shoulders for an incoming SWAT team.

At first, Sam has hopes that the news coming out of Monument will give Bela a false sense of security, maybe make her easier to track. It only takes them a week to decide that either she's the most cautious person on the planet or she's figured out that the reports of their deaths were greatly exaggerated. Either way, it makes finding her harder but not impossible. They keep trying, but that's not all they do.

They go where the hunts lead them, like they always have, but now they pay a little more attention to anything that might be demonic in origin, and they have an ongoing argument about whether the "new power in the west" is literally in the west or if that was just metaphor. Bobby's working his contacts, trying to get a lead on Bela, and Ruby's...doing whatever it is that Ruby does when she isn't suddenly appearing in Sam's life and complicating things that really don't need to be any more difficult than they already are.

Ellen's word-of-mouth tip that Bela might be heading for Lawrence doesn't pan out. Sam takes advantage of the opportunity, though, to stop and do a little midnight digging—the paperwork kind, not the six-feet-down kind—but he doesn't find anything that might shed light on the mystery of Mary Winchester, epicenter of death. After he's given up looking but before he'll let Dean drag him out of town, he goes by the cemetery, bouquet of daffodils in hand, and spends half an hour talking to the grass and the earth and the glossy block of granite that are all he's ever known of his mother. He doesn't really expect any answers but in their line of work you never know, and anyway it makes him feel better.

_I'm sorry,_ she'd said, the words heavy with sorrow and hidden meaning, and more than anything Sam wishes he could go back and ask her, "For what?"

* * *

In the end they don't find Bela, she finds them.

Sam's guard is down; he's wearing the remains of half a dozen vampires and still trying to cope with the cognitive dissonance of having Dean by his side on a hunt that he has achingly clear memories of having worked alone, and all he wants is to shower and then fall asleep listening to the sounds of Dean alive and breathing in the other bed. The door slams shut behind him at the same instant that he registers Bela's presence. She's sitting at the little table in the corner of their room, the Colt in her lap.

"Hello, boys," she says, and Sam has a sudden urge to smack the smug look off her face.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean move toward her and then stop, his entire body radiating tension, and that's when Sam realizes she's not alone. Beside her is a girl, maybe ten or eleven years old and dressed like she's straight out of the 1940s.

The girl slides off her chair, her black patent-leather shoes shiny and out of place against the threadbare beige of the motel carpet. She's smiling as she walks toward him, and Sam can feel the cold sense of _wrong_ in his gut that he's learned to trust. He tries to warn Dean but his voice isn't working.

"Sam and Dean Winchester," the girl says, her voice sweet and light. "I've been looking everywhere for you two."

"What the hell—?" Dean starts, but the girl makes a careless shooing motion and he's slammed up against the wall, eyes wide with pain and shock, blood trickling from his nose and the corner of his mouth.

If Sam could move, he'd strangle her with his bare hands, little girl or no.

Another graceful gesture of her tiny hand and Sam's on his knees, which puts them pretty much face to face. Her eyes are the milky white of the blind, but it's obvious she can see him. His arms are trapped at his sides, held there by invisible bands, but when he opens his mouth he finds he can speak again.

"Let me guess," he says. "Lilith, right?"

"Lilith?" Dean's voice is rough, forced, and his breathing is ragged. "_She's_ the new demon on the block?"

The girl's smile is bright and pleased, the expression of a delighted child. "I was sure you'd know me! Azazel thought that by keeping us apart he could make you his alone, but he was wrong." Sam's just about to tell her exactly what he thinks of being treated like a strategic territory in some demonic game of Risk, but then she...changes. She doesn't actually _change_, though, not in any way that's visible or concrete; still, Sam can feel the shift in his gut, and when she speaks again her tone isn't that of a child at all. "We belong to each other, my beloved. To each other and to no one else. We are meant to be—Lilith and Samael, Samael and Lilith—and nothing in this world or any other can keep us apart."

Vague memories of his research on Lilith surface. There was so much lore, and most of it contradictory, that he'd quickly given up on finding anything useful, but he remembers one origin myth mentioning Samael. If she thinks that's him, then she's crazier than demons usually are. He's not going to insult her to her face, of course, at least not in so many words, not while Dean's life is in her hands.

Dean doesn't seem to have any self-preservation instinct, though, because he says, "Kid, you are one serious nutjob."

Sam's about to snap at Dean, but Bela beats him to it. "Dean, sweetie," she says, her tone all candy-coated condescension, "stop talking. The grown-ups are having a conversation right now."

A sharp look from Sam and Dean shuts his mouth, but his eyes say that when they get out of this he's got some choice words for her. Sam only hopes he gets the chance. Turning his attention back to Lilith, Sam says, gently and with every ounce of sincerity he can muster, "I'm not him, Lilith. I don't know who you're looking for, but it's not me."

"Of course you are," she replies, equally gently. "We're connected, you and I. Can't you feel it? Right here?" One small hand touches his shirt where it covers his stomach, her palm pressing flat against his navel, and he does feel something, a light tug followed by a warmth spreading through his gut.

He shakes his head though, looks her in the eye and lies. "No." Lilith laughs like she can see right through him, and he continues, "Samael and Lilith were born as one, right? My mother didn't have twins, she just had me."

"There's so much you don't know, Sam Winchester. So much that Azazel kept from you." Her hand moves from his stomach to his forehead, and the room lurches nauseatingly.

He's reclining against a pile of pillows in bed, inhaling the heavy antiseptic smell that he associates with hospitals. His father—not the man Sam remembers, but a much younger John Winchester—sits at his bedside, pale and drawn and looking worse than Sam can remember ever seeing him. He's holding Sam's hand in both of his, and it's not until a man in scrubs and a white coat pushes open the door, looks straight at Sam and says, "How are you feeling, Mary?" that Sam realizes it's not _his_ hand, that it's not _him_ at all.

"Okay, I guess," his mother's voice says, coming out of what feels like his mouth without any thought or intent on his part, and it's almost like being possessed, except for how it's not like that at all. His hand moves to cover the bulge of his pregnant belly. "How are my babies, Dr. Hardecker? Are they all right?" Sam feels simultaneous flutters under his fingers and in his stomach: the movement of a baby from outside and in. But his mother said 'babies,' plural, which isn't right. No one has ever, _ever_ mentioned anything about twins; not his father, nor anyone else who knew his parents before the fire.

Except that everyone who might've known is dead now, victims of some giant demonic cover-up.

Hardecker lifts up the end of a strip of paper that's slowly being spit out of a machine beside the bed. He studies it for a moment, expression grave. "I'm very concerned," he finally says. "Both the twins' heart rates are a little flat, which suggests they're not getting the blood supply they need." He sits on the edge of the bed and looks from Sam to his father and back. Voice low, he continues, "Twenty-five weeks is really very early, especially with twins, and I think our only option right now is to keep you in the hospital, so you can rest and we can monitor the babies."

Sam nods, and his father says, "Sure, yes. Whatever we need to do."

"We'll reassess things as often as necessary, of course, but I have to be honest with you—it's not looking good." Hardecker glances at the monitor again. "I'm so sorry."

Once he's gone, Sam says, "You should go home, sweetheart. Reassure Dean that everything's okay, and get yourself a good night's sleep. We'll still be here in the morning."

His father starts to protest, but slim fingers silence him.

"I mean it, John." His mother's voice is stern, but he can hear the love underneath and can see its echo in his father's eyes. The press of lips to his cheek makes Sam want to reach out and wrap his arms around his father, to hug him and say he's sorry. He can't, though; he can't even give in to the tears that are constricting his throat and making his vision swim, because he's just a passenger, an unwilling voyeur.

As soon as his father is out of the room, Sam feels the wet heat of tears rolling down his face. Curled up on his side, knees pulled up and arms curved protectively over his belly, Sam mourns for the past as his mother fears for the future.

He must've fallen asleep, because when he opens his eyes next, the room is nearly dark. A figure stands next to the bed, and for a second Sam thinks it's his father, unable to stay away from his mother's bedside. Then the figure steps into the circle of dim light surrounding the bed and Sam recognizes Azazel.

"Hello, Mary."

Every instinct is screaming for Sam to do something, to drive the evil son of a bitch away from his mother, even though he _knows_ this is nothing more than a memory, a re-creation of events long past. He yawns, lethargic and drained from his earlier crying jag, and says, "Hi. You're the new night nurse, right?"

Azazel shakes his head. "No, I'm the answer to your prayers," he says, and Sam's almost relieved, because that's so cheesy that there's no way his mother will believe another word Azazel says. "You prayed for your babies to be okay, and I came to do what I can to help."

"You're—" Sam swallows, uncurls his body a little and feels a muted flutter of movement in his belly, the feeble efforts of unborn babies who, he suddenly realizes with a certainty that he can't even begin to explain, are too weak to survive to be anything more. "You're an angel?"

"Something like that," Azazel says, taking Sam's hand. "There's only so much I can do, though."

Sam's not sure if it's his own fear or his mother's that he's feeling, but his throat is tight and the beat of his heart is making his chest ache. "Can you save them?" he asks. "I'll do anything, give anything. I've prayed—"

"Shhhh. I know, Mary, I know. And your prayers were heard." Azazel settles his hand lightly on Sam's belly. "Have you picked names yet?"

Sam laughs, and it comes out broken and almost like a sob. "John didn't want to know if it was a boy or a girl, but when the doctor told us we were having twins..." He takes a breath. "Samuel and Lily. Their names are Samuel and Lily."

There's silence for a minute, and then Azazel says, "One will live, but all I can do for the other is shepherd his or her soul." Before Sam can do more than open his mouth, Azazel continues, "I won't ask you to choose, Mary. No mother should ever have to choose between her children. Let me help you."

Sam nods, the gesture short and sharp.

The pain is excruciating, worse than anything Sam's ever felt, and he doubles over, trying to catch his breath. Azazel's hand lifts away from him, surrounded by a glow that slowly coalesces into a ball of light floating above his palm. Sam reaches out and cups his own hand over it, and a sense of peace washes over him.

He opens his eyes again to find the room empty and silent except for the machines ticking away quietly beside him, and he doesn't need Dr. Hardecker's quietly compassionate explanation to tell him what he already knows: Lily's heartbeat is gone.

Everything lurches again and Sam's back in the sleazy Austin motel room, on his knees in front of a demon claiming to be his stillborn twin sister. Because his life wasn't already fucked up enough, apparently.

"Why should I believe you?" he asks, wanting desperately for it to not be true. "You could be making it all up; everyone who would know better is dead."

Lilith slides her hand down his face, cupping his cheek. "Ask our brother. He knows the truth."

_Demons lie,_ he reminds himself, pushing down the knee-jerk feelings of hurt and betrayal. "Dean?" he asks.

Dean just raises his eyebrows in response, looking at Sam like Sam's an idiot. "Dude, I was _four_."

Sam can read the anger and frustration in Dean's eyes, and he tries to communicate his own silent message in return: _Don't try anything stupid, Dean. Please._ Aloud, he says, "Did anyone ever say anything about twins? Or was Mom ever sick or in the hospital before I was born?"

Dean starts to say something, then stops, maybe thinking. "Yeah. Yeah, she was. I forgot about that. She was in the hospital for a few days, and Dad was pretty frantic, but then she came home and everything was fine." He stops for a second, then continues, "Even if you did have a twin that died, you can't seriously believe that's her." Dean nods toward Lilith, who's smiling at Sam again. "Demons lie, Sammy."

Sam shakes his head. "Later, Dean." It's a warning and a plea, and he can only hope Dean listens.

Lilith's hand lifts again, caresses Sam's cheek. Over her shoulder, he can see Bela watching the scene like it was some mildly interesting television show, her hand resting lightly on the Colt. Then Lilith's face fills his vision as she leans in to press her lips to his.

"My beloved," she whispers against his skin. "Lie with me, my Samael, that I may bear you an army." He knows it's probably not very politic, but Sam can't help the shudder of revulsion that runs through him at those words coming from a child's mouth. She doesn't take offense, though, but merely laughs softly. "It can't be the idea of bedding your own flesh and blood that repulses you," she muses, shooting a knowing glance at Dean, "so it must be my outfit. We'll just have to find something you like better, then."

Panic knots tightly in his chest, and Sam focuses past Lilith, trying to see whether Dean heard her quiet words and, more importantly, whether he believes them. Dean won't meet his eyes, though, which is all the answer Sam needs. There's a faint flush staining Dean's cheeks as he turns his head away, the movement drawing Sam's gaze to the curve of his neck, the line of his jaw. Even now, with a sick coil of self-loathing twisting in his gut, Sam still wants things he shouldn't, wants things he knows he can't have.

"Dean—" He's not sure what to say to make it better, or even if it can be made better, but he has to try.

"Well." Bela leans forward a little in her chair. "I must admit I didn't see _that_ one coming."

Dean's head snaps around and his mouth opens, but he freezes as the window behind Sam shatters. Broken glass rains down on the floor and the bed, and then Ruby's crouched beside Sam, her nails digging briefly into his calf. Lilith is the first to react, a wave of her hand sending Ruby across the room and against the wall beside Dean, wrists pinned above her head and hands clutching futilely at the air as she gasps for breath. Rage flashes across Lilith's face, there and gone so quickly that Sam thinks maybe he only imagined it, and then she's moving toward Ruby, her expression again serene.

As soon as he's sure Lilith's attention is fully occupied, Sam looks down at the leg Ruby had clutched and sees a glint of silver that's almost hidden under his shin. He shifts a little, hoping Lilith won't notice him pushing against her restraints. Slowly he reaches down until he can grab the blade of Ruby's knife and slip it up his sleeve, the effort making his heart pound in his ears.

"You've been quite annoying lately," Lilith says, "with your insistence on interfering with my plans."

"Sorry about that," Ruby grinds out. "Oh, wait. No, I'm not. Bite me, bitch..." She trails off into a scream, writhing. Her back is arched, rivulets of blood running down the front of her tee-shirt, and all Sam can see is Dean pinned to the rough wall of a cabin, begging their father not to let the yellow-eyed demon kill him. Now, like then, Sam is trapped, a horrified observer, but this time he won't hesitate to go for the killing blow if he's given half a chance.

Ruby's body goes limp.

"She's pretty enough, if you go for the trashy look," Lilith says conversationally, her head tilted slightly like Ruby is a puzzle she's trying to figure out. Then she glances over her shoulder at Sam. "But you don't, do you? What _do_ you go for?"

It's not really a question; Sam knows that. He also knows that he really, _really_ doesn't want her to say anything more. Before he can come up with a way to distract her, though, Lilith's body dissolves into a plume of black smoke that swirls fluidly toward a wide-eyed Dean.

"No!" Sam's voice breaks, and he clears his throat and tries again. "Please. I don't want— Not like that." Their tattoos are enough to protect against possession by an ordinary demon, but Lilith is anything but ordinary. She's connected to them, ties of flesh and blood that Sam wishes he couldn't feel, the three of them spanning an entire fucked-up continuum: demon Lilith, half-demon Sam, and pure, human Dean.

When the demon-cloud hesitates, the knot in Sam's chest eases, and when it shifts direction suddenly, flowing in through the surprised O of Bela's mouth, he feels only relief. Lilith-in-Bela's-body squares her shoulders and stands, smiling at him in a way that's uncomfortably reminiscent of some of Sam's recent, embarrassing dreams. Between the milky-white eyes, though, and the fact that something of the little-girl mien remains, Sam has no problem remembering it's not really Bela in control.

"There," Lilith says, with a quick pirouette. "Better, my beloved?"

He's got Ruby's knife now, and with it the beginnings of a plan. Not a great plan, admittedly, but maybe one that'll get all of them through this alive. Well, all of them except Bela, but he's not going to let himself feel bad about that; she made a choice when she allied herself with Lilith, when she stole the Colt from them and then handed them over to a demon.

It's the Colt that has Sam a little worried, actually, because it was in Bela's hand when Lilith possessed her, and the fact that it can kill demons doesn't mean it can't also kill him or Dean. He's pretty sure Lilith hasn't noticed she's still holding it. And if his plan is going to work, he needs to keep her from noticing, needs to get her close, and, most importantly, needs to be able to move more than an inch at a time.

There's only one way he can think of to accomplish all three.

Her tone still makes his skin crawl, but Sam pushes the thought away and smiles, pretends he likes what he sees, and says, "Much, thank you." When he glances over, he can see Dean looking between him and Lilith like he thinks they're both crazy. _You may be right_, Sam thinks. Doesn't mean he has any other choice, though, because he has no more intention of letting Dean die today than he does of giving him up to a pack of hellhounds six months from now.

He's not sure what's showing on his face, but somehow he isn't surprised when Lilith picks up on the general direction of his thoughts. "His soul doesn't have to be forfeit," she says. "Nor his life."

"He made a deal—" Sam starts, dropping his gaze to the floor. He can't face Dean while he has this conversation.

"With _my_ representative," she interrupts, and Sam jerks his head up in surprise. She's not looking at him, though; she's across the room, facing Dean, who's staring fixedly into space, a muscle in his jaw twitching from the way he's clenching it. "I thought perhaps I'd gift the contract to you—gift _him_ to you—in celebration of our betrothal," she says over her shoulder. "Isn't that what you want, my love? For him to belong to you, body and soul?"

She obviously doesn't expect Sam to answer, doesn't need him to. They both know it's what he wants.

For a fraction of a second, he lets himself really consider it. He could keep Dean out of trouble, keep him safe. Keep him, period. Sam knows he's nowhere near as good a person as Dean thinks he is—he's not that selfless, not that noble—and the idea of having Dean all to himself, forever...

He swallows, a wasted gesture since his mouth is suddenly drier than the Sahara. "What do I have to do?"

"Jesus, Sam, you're not serious." Dean's staring at him, wearing an expression Sam remembers all too well; it's the same disbelief mixed with shock and hurt that flashed across Dean's face as Sam's bullet spun him back and off a pier.

"What do I have to do?" Sam repeats, focusing on Lilith and trying to tune Dean out. Sam's got a plan, but there's no way to communicate that to Dean, and even if he could, he suspects Dean's recent tractability wouldn't extend to shutting up and letting Sam make a deal with a demon.

Lilith turns and smiles blindingly at him. "We shall bring forth armies, my love, and our names will be feared and adored in equal measure. Bind yourself to me, my beloved, my Samael. Give me your word, your oath, and Dean will be yours in return."

She steps close enough that Sam has to look up to see her face, and he tilts his chin further, inviting. He thinks of how much he wants what she's offering, how much he _needs_ it, and lets those emotions shine in his eyes. "Lilith," he says, and she curls one cool hand along his jaw, her thumb stroking across his lower lip.

"Don't you do it." Dean's voice is rough with desperation. "Sam, no."

Sam licks his lips, tastes salt. He closes his eyes. "For so long as we both shall live," he whispers, feeling her breath warm against his face as she laughs, the sound low and pleased.

"A kiss, then," she says, "to seal our covenant."

The press of Lilith's (_Bela's_) mouth to his is electric, but it's wrong, too. It's not an act of passion, nor an expression of desire; it's a mark scrawled in blood, a contract signed and delivered. Sam straightens his right arm a little more, lets the knife slip down until the hilt is firm in his hand.

"Sammy," Dean says, sounding broken in a way Sam has never heard before, has never even imagined was possible. That quiet, fractured despair makes Sam feel hollow, empty like he hasn't since those nonexistent months he spent/didn't spend alone on the road, chasing after the Trickster. It makes him second-guess himself, too, and that instant of hesitation is all it takes. Lilith starts to pull back, and when he drives Ruby's knife into her, his aim is off; the wound sparks orange and black and she screams, but her writhing is agony rather than death throes, and Sam knows he's failed.

He swallows. He can't look over at Dean or at Ruby, can't bear to see their disappointment, so he focuses instead on Lilith. She's staring down at where the knife hilt protrudes from under her ribs, one hand coming up to touch it like she can't quite believe it's real, and when she looks up at him again it's obviously not Lilith in control. It's just Bela, her eyes wide and green and afraid. Off to the side, he can hear Dean and Ruby slide to the floor, twin hisses of pain followed by a confusion of voices, both of them trying to talk at the same time.

Sam's not listening to either of them.

"Sam," Bela says, and it's barely a whisper but it might as well be the only sound in the room.

The Colt is at her temple before he realizes what she's doing, and then the crack of a shot echoes in the enclosed space, making his ears ring. There's a hiss of static, a flash of lightning, and Bela's body collapses, a marionette with its strings cut. Her eyes are still wide and green, but they aren't afraid anymore.

Time passes, Sam's not sure how much, but he vaguely hears the murmur of Dean and Ruby's voices across the room. Bela's name catches his attention, and he tunes in to hear Ruby saying, "—that she wanted, and in return she gave me Weyer's original grimoire." Sam doesn't catch Dean's question, but Ruby clarifies, "I don't know, but that's where I found the spell to vaporize demons, so it has to mean something."

He reaches out and closes Bela's eyes as gently as he can, her skin still warm to the touch. Scrubbing at his own eyes with a shirtsleeve, he tries to put the pieces together: Bela and the Colt and a grimoire that had precisely the spell they needed to escape Lilith's demon army back in Monument. He doesn't know what Bela's game was, and he's probably never going to get the kind of answers he'd like, but in the end she came down on their side and he figures that's what counts.

Dean's voice goes quieter, the words indistinct but unmistakably annoyed, and Sam hears Ruby answer in kind, an undercurrent of sexual tension to their sniping that makes something in his chest wrench and ache. He thinks about what Lilith said, thinks about Dean belonging to him. Thinks about that broken "Sammy." Then he pushes himself to his feet and moves over to Dean and Ruby, who stop arguing.

"Dean, about what Lilith said—" Sam starts, but he's not really sure where to go from there. How do you tell your brother "I'm sorry that I want you"? Or, more honestly, "I'm sorry you found out that I want you"?

Dean shrugs, but he won't meet Sam's eyes. "I didn't hear anything," he says.

It's not unexpected, and part of Sam is relieved, but part of him aches, too. He takes a deep breath and says, "Yeah, okay. Listen, d'you have your lighter on you?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so." Dean looks puzzled, but he fishes around in his pocket and comes up with a plain silver Zippo. He drops it into Sam's outstretched hand.

Sam stares down at it, rubbing his thumb over the burnished metal. "I'll give you your soul for it," he says, looking back up in time to catch the widening of Dean's eyes. "Deal?"

For a second it seems like Dean is going to refuse, but then he nods curtly. "Deal," he affirms.

Sam's not a hundred percent sure this'll work, but it's worth trying anyway. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth, relieved when he feels the same spark of electricity he felt when Lilith kissed him. "There," he says, ignoring the way Dean jerks back like he's been burned. "Do me a favor and don't trade it away again, okay?"

Without waiting to hear Dean's response, Sam is out the door and into the darkness, needing to get away, needing time to regroup before he has to go back to pretending everything is normal between them. Needing to figure out if he even _can_ go back to pretending, now that he's been ripped open and left exposed.

He's not sure how long he leans against the Impala's fender, fiddling with the lighter—_flick_, _snap_, _flip_—but it can't have been too long, because it hasn't run out of fuel yet when Dean comes into view, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.

"Me and Ruby got things taken care of," Dean says. "C'mon back inside, Sammy. Get some sleep."

Sam waits for a minute, but Dean doesn't look like he's got anything else to say, just stands there with his shoulders tense and his body folded in on itself until finally Sam snaps the lighter shut one last time and slips it into his pocket. "Yeah, okay," Sam says, pushing away from the car, not sure how he ever thought he had another choice.

Dean turns and heads for the motel room and Sam, as always, follows his brother's lead.


End file.
